The Trees And The Night (Book 3) (48 page)

The prisoner chuckled to himself and patted a hand on the old crates. Who could ever have conceived of so simple an object as such a blessing? The prisoner found it so. At first, when he was bound with chains and thrown into this small dark room, he looked on the jumble of crates and molding wooden boxes as part of the misery of his predicament. However, a man must learn to adapt and survive.

The floor of his cell was covered in several inches of putrid smelling water. Had he been forced to lay in its dampness, the prisoner was convinced he would not have remained alive this long. Chill would have set in and he could not possibly have lasted. He stacked the debris to remain above the cold stone floor of the cell and this had at least afforded him his restless sleep.

The footfalls approached his cell and the prisoner stood on shaky legs. He refused to let them see him broken. With wrists locked only inches from one another, he ran his fingers through his graying locks to clear his hair from his eyes. A rusty key squeaked into an equally rusty keyhole and with a loud clunk the old storage room door was unlocked.

The prisoner’s chin rose and he composed his face into its most dignified demeanor. The door slowly creaked outward. The prisoner contemplated what insult he would toss offhandedly at his captors.

The insult never came. Immediately a torch was thrust into the tiny cell and its light nearly blinded the lone occupant. The prisoner snarled and his chains rattled as his hands shot up to cover his eyes from the brilliance.

“Beat me if you must,” growled the prisoner, “but for Avra’s sake, get that light out of my eyes.”

“My apologies, General Olith.” came the steady voice of a figure just now appearing beyond the torchlight.

The figure drew the torch from the converted storage room and mounted it in the hallway.

“Forgive me. I didn’t think of how its light would effect you,” said the figure kindly.

Olith dropped his hands from his eyes and beheld a monk standing in the doorway. The monk bowed low then searched through a set of keys.

“I am Brother Shor of the monastery of Awoi. It has taken the brotherhood quite some time to find you,” said the monk. “Our jailers did not reveal your whereabouts until pressured. As it is, we have been free from our own imprisonment for only a day.”

The monk smiled as he found what he was looking for and softly drew Olith’s hands up toward the key.

“The brotherhood became aware of your imprisonment an hour ago,” continued the monk. “Even then the Ramsskull were reluctant to disclose your location. They feared retribution for your mistreatment.”

Brother Shor turned the key in Olith’s shackles and they popped open, falling to the floor of the cell with a splash. The monk wrinkled his nose as he inspected Olith’s surroundings.

“Come, my lord,” said Shor. “We must remove you from this vile place.”

The monk stepped aside and held a hand toward the door of the cell. Olith looked toward the hallway and noticed several robed figures in the low light of the torch. As he moved to step from his confinement his stiff legs gave way and he nearly toppled forward. Strong, confident hands shot out and supported the general. He winced in pain and slowly moved into the hallway.

“Thank you, brothers,” said Olith. “It has been weeks since these old legs were used properly.”

It was then that Olith turned and saw the Ramsskull insignia. The torchlight played upon the ghostly skull emblazoned across the tunic of a smallish Keltaran standing in the hallway. Two large monks flanked the man. Each held a hand tightly locked on the Ramsskull guard’s arms. A scowl broke across Olith’s face as he recognized the features of his jailer, the man who contemptuously tossed small amounts of moldy bread and flagons of bitter water to Olith each day. Brother Shor exited the cell behind Olith and noted the general’s expression.

“Only a select few knew your location. Fenrel resurrected an ancient sub floor of the palace, abandoned long ago as a storage area due to its propensity to take on ground water. Even those with long memories had forgotten its existence,” stated Shor nodding toward the jailer. “This Ramsskull was finally coerced into providing your location.”

The jailer dropped his head and his frantic eyes studied the darkness at his feet. Olith stared at him for a moment then turned to Shor.

“Please,” said the general, “take me from this place. I wish to see the sun.”

The assembled monks eyed one another with concern then Shor’s face grew grim.

 “It is nearly midnight, my lord,” said Shor, “but you are correct. We must get you away from this place.”

Shor motioned to the priests guarding the jailer and they pulled the sullen man aside. Those supporting Olith led him down the dank hallway toward a crude opening twenty yards ahead. Bricks and old mortar lay strewn about the hole and the general nearly lost his footing as he navigated the opening.

“Our ancestors walled off this section of the lower levels years ago,” said Shor following Olith and his escort through the hole.

On the other side of the wall lay several buckets and a pile of fresh mortar. Shor’s expression remained grim.

“Apparently, the wall was soon to be rebuilt on orders from Fenrel.” said the priest.

Olith’s eyes widened in shock as he stared through the hole down the corridor to the tiny wooden door that was intended to be his tomb. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought. He closed his eyes and tried to banish the image of the cell from his memory.

“Please,” repeated Olith to the monk, “take me from this place.”

Brother Shor nodded and quickly the little group moved through a series of poorly lit hallways and tunnels. Some of the tunnels ascended barely noticeable inclines and others ended in flights of steps. With each stride Olith’s mobility returned and the pain he felt faded.

Eventually the general found himself in areas of the palace with which he was quite familiar. Other Keltaran moved rapidly about these areas. Many carried bundles of weapons or other supplies.

“The palace is alive with activity,” commented Olith, “yet you said the hour is late.”

 Shor led the group forward and did not turn to respond. He approached a spiraling stairway and continued their ascent.

“The brotherhood is a clergy devoted to peace,” said Shor climbing the stairway rapidly. “However, we are also trained to fight. In most cases, we are more formidable warriors than your own Anvil.”

“In weaponless combat you are superior,” wheezed Olith in reply. “What does this have to .... ?”

“Forgive my pace, General,” interrupted Shor. “I understand you are not well but we require speed.”

Olith heard grunts behind him and looked over his shoulder to see his jailer being dragged up the staircase as well.

“As I was saying,” continued Shor, “our fighting capabilities are not suspect. That is why the remaining Ramsskull released us from our cells. However, we are no tacticians. We are not trained in the science of warfare. That is the domain of the officers of the Anvil.”

“The remaining Ramsskull....?” questioned Olith. “Where is the king? Where is Fenrel?”

The group’s long climb ended upon a landing familiar to Olith. A door stood at the end of a small chamber. That door led to a parapet upon one of the highest points of the palace. The general always admired the views from this place.

“Fenrel departed to conquer the Zodrian realm,” answered Brother Shor grimly.

He led the group toward the door and grasped its handle.

“The king’s body was discovered in his chambers only days after Fenrel’s departure,” continued Shor. “He has been dead for weeks.”

Olith’s heart sank and his stomach burned. His beloved brother. Dead. How? He stared out at the floor of the parapet. It extended for twenty yards then met the dark, cloud-covered sky of Hrafnu’s Valley. The mountaintops that comprised the walls of the valley were shrouded in these clouds as they stretched several leagues south to the gorge that marked its entry. The valley below lay hidden from Olith’s sight by the stone floor of the parapet.

Olith cocked his head sideways. He noted strangeness in the clouds. They were illuminated, but not from behind as they would be by a full moon and star filled sky. Instead, the cloud cover was awash in light from below. The light glowed red and cast shadows on the billows of white up above.

Olith slowly moved forward into the chill night air. The edge of the balcony moved toward his feet and his view into the valley below was unmasked. Shor followed closely at his shoulder.

“We can fight,” said the priest calmly. “We will fight, but we have no skill, no training in battling ... that.”

Shor’s hand swept over the balcony’s stone rail. Olith froze at its edge, mouth open in horror. Thousands of fires burned across the valley floor. They extended from a line of roaring bonfires two hundred yards from the massive gates of Keltar to tiny flickers of orange and red dancing against the base of the gorge in the distance.

Heavy gray and black figures filled every space between the flames. Olith’s vision adjusted to the darkness and he noted how the valley floor seethed with the dark figures.

“The Anvil is gone?” mumbled Olith in dismay.

“Several weeks now,” replied Shor.

“Fenrel left no one?” asked Olith.

“A hundred regulars and a few dozen Ramsskull to keep them in line,” answered the monk. “We added hundreds more from the citizenry. Boys, not yet of age for the Anvil, were outfitted with armor and weapons. Old ones, some young women. Anyone capable of swinging an ax or handling a pike has been pressed into service. A few hundred more at best.”

Olith stood dazed for a moment longer. His brother gone. His nephew on a campaign born of avarice. His beautiful homeland deserted of her protection and besieged by an army that might challenge her even if her contingent were full. His expression hardened and he spun on Shor.

“A few hundred against five thousand,” shouted Olith. “It cannot be done!”

The monk stood impassive. Olith turned back to the valley and noted the dark path that wound through its middle. He stabbed a finger down at the black ribbon.

“Block the river,” commanded Olith. “I want the flood gate on the southern wall closed.”

Shor furrowed his brow and glanced at the other monks. Olith turned back toward his liberator. Fire burned in the general’s eyes.

“Do it! We have very little time and a great deal to accomplish,” barked the general as he swept past the monk and off the balcony.

On the landing stood the restrained jailer and his pair of guards. Olith burst through the balcony doorway and strode purposefully toward the stairwell. Shor and his attendants followed closely behind.

“Free him and put him on the parapets with a crossbow in his hands,” growled the general. “We need every able body we can get.”

Olith stormed past the trio and was immediately lost from sight down the winding staircase.

“If he refuses,” echoed the voice of the general from the stairway, “release him into the valley below.”

 END OF BOOK III OF THE SERAPHINIUM

GLOSSARY OF CHARACTERS AND LOCATIONS

Ader: One of the second generation of Seraphim created by Avra to fill the gap after Awoi and Amird left the world. Ader represents the voice of Avra, commanding those on this world who will follow. Ader uses many aliases throughout the lands, including Jasper.

Aemmon Brelgson: The second son of Brelg, an innkeeper in the small town of Kelky. Aemmon was killed by the Malveel called Methra while camping in the Nagur Wood.

Alel: One of the second generation of Seraphim created by Avra to fill the gap after Awoi and Amird left the world. Alel represents the Ear of Avra, hearing all the prayers and praise of his people. Alel resides in Forend, the original world of all Elves.

Amird: One of the first two Seraphim created by Avra to help and support the human race. Amird represents the intellect and creativity of the Creator. Amird turned on his Creator, murdered his brother Awoi and leads the forces of Chaos in an attempt to overthrow Avra’s influence.

The Anvil: The military of the Keltaran empire. All Keltaran men past a certain age are members of the Anvil. The Anvil is separated into units known as Hammers.

Astel: Once thriving kingdom on the plateaus to the east of the Mirozert Mountains. Astel lies conquered by the warlock Izgra and his Ulrog stone men. The palace and ruins surrounding it have been renamed Kel Izgra. It is the seat of Chaos’s power on the world.

Avra: The Lord God and Creator of the world.

Awoi: One of the first two Seraphim created by Avra to help and support the human race. Awoi represents the heart and compassion of the Creator. Awoi was murdered by his brother Amird. Awoi is the father of Hrafnu the giant, first of the Keltaran people.

The Black: Manfir’s battle mount. Also referred to as the Prize by the Eru. A battle tested and high spirited animal.

Brelg Kelson: Owner of a small inn, “The King’s Service”, in the town of Kelky. Raising two sons on his own. Brelg is a retired sergeant of the Zodrian Guard and a highly respected military strategist.

Cefiz: The cook at “The King’s Service” in Kelky. Cefiz is a retired lieutenant of the Zodrian Guard and a former member of a highly decorated unit referred to as “The Orphans”.

Chani: General and Commander of the Grey Elf army.

Chimbre: The grandson of Sprite. The Sprites are a group of Elves who left Luxlor to find their destiny in the Toxkri Swamp. His sister is Lilywynn.